


Midnight phantoms

by dezemberzarin



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: First Time, Infidelity, Laver Cup, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 23:56:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12569056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dezemberzarin/pseuds/dezemberzarin
Summary: It all comes to a head in Prague.





	Midnight phantoms

**Author's Note:**

> After about twelve years of watching tennis and shipping these idiots, this happened. Blame Roger and his truly outstanding commitment to have us all die from an overdose of Fedal in just five days.

Roger’s plane touches down in Prague late in the morning, the sky milky with clouds that whisper of the autumn to come. For now it’s still summer, if only on the calendar, but Roger still shivers as he steps out of the recycled plane air and onto the stairs leading to the tarmac. The breeze does little to dissipate the sleepiness that always hits him when traveling, no matter the length or time of the journey and he tries to pull himself together, fully aware of what will be waiting for him at the terminal. Tony warned him. 

The swarm of reporters descends upon him as soon as the sliding doors open. Roger smiles in what he hopes is a genial manner and fields the barrage of shouted requests as calmly as possible, trying not to let his impatience show as the questions keep on coming. 

“Will your family be joining you, Roger?” The man posing the question is jostling others away to push the microphone right up to his face. Roger keeps the smile on his face but it takes some effort.

“No, they won’t be. The kids are enjoying their summer holiday.” He catches Tony’s eye and thankfully his agent gets the hint and starts ushering people aside until Roger can step out of the throng of reporters and join him. 

“Sorry,” Tony says once they’re in the car and on their way, sounding completely unapologetic. “I know you don’t like being ambushed, but it’s good publicity. The local outlets will pick it up and most of the international press has already sent their guys.”

“I know,” Roger says, because he does. They both know what they’re trying to achieve here. Talking about it will do neither of their nerves any good. “It’s fine, Tony.” 

“You look tired.” 

“Well, I have four kids,” Roger says drily. It’s his standard answer to this statement ever since Leo and Lenny were born. From most people it at least earns a chuckle, but Tony knows him too well. 

“Mirka isn’t coming?” 

“She wanted to. But Leo came down with a fever yesterday, which usually means Lenny will be next. We decided it was better for her to stay with them and the girls, just in case.”

In truth Mirka was the one to decide. “They need me right now,” she said and Roger knew better than to push. It might just be the flu but he still remembers Myla’s brief hospital stay after a nasty bout of pneumonia. Listening to his three year-old daughter’s hacking cough as he held onto her dry, hot little hand is still the worst memory Roger possesses and they’ve both been sensitive about the kids’ illnesses since then. 

Still, he already misses her. There is no one who can read him like Mirka, no one who is able to brush aside his concerns with a few well-placed words and a hand on his cheek. He could use that right about now. Roger is keenly aware of the audacity of their venture and its many detractors will be quick to remind them if it fails. The established tennis organizations guard their powers jealously and they trod onto more than a few toes when they pushed for this event to happen. The media attention was a good thing, but they’d be quick to turn on them if this didn’t play out the way they wanted it to. Nothing as fickle as the tennis press corps’ favor, Roger has learned that the hard way. 

“Roger.” 

He glances over and Tony gives him a serious look. “Everything will be fine. It’s all worked out.” 

“Yeah,” Roger says, burying his anxiousness as he glances out the window to the city taking shape around them. “I’m sure it will be.” 

 

*

He calls Mirka from his hotel suite, looking out at Prague’s old town being dipped into midday sun as the dial tone rings in his ear. It takes her a long time to answer and when she does, her voice is harried. 

“It’s me,” Roger says, feeling a little silly all of a sudden. “I probably should have texted. Just calling to say I got in okay. How is everyone?” 

“We’re fine,” Mirka replies. “Really, Roger, you don’t have to worry about us. Your mom is here as well, I have all the help I need.” 

Rubbing at eyes that are suddenly stinging, Roger breathes a short laugh. “Yeah, I know. I just miss you guys.” 

Mirka’s voice is soft when she answers. “We miss you, too. I mailed Tony your schedule; he’ll have someone to remind you of all the appointments.” 

“Don’t worry about that now. I’ll manage.” 

She’s silent for so long that Roger is about to check whether the call disconnected. “I wish I could be there with you. You worked so hard to make this happen, Roger. I’m so proud of you.” 

“I just-“, Roger hesitates. “I don’t want it to be a disappointment, you know?” 

It’s the worst case scenario, but not improbable by any means. There are so many factors contributing to whether this week will be remembered as a success or anything of longevity. 

“Promise me you’ll remember to enjoy yourself. Don’t take on all the responsibility; you’ve got Tony for that. He knows this event inside and out, everything-”, her voice off and Roger immediately hears why, the sound of one of their son’s crying tinny but audible over the line. 

“Go,” he says, already feeling guilty for keeping her. “I’ll text you tonight.”

“I love you.” 

“Love you, too.” 

The silence once he hangs up is oppressive. They’ve given him a suite with a beautiful view across the river which seems too big now that he’s on his own. Busying himself with carefully unpacking all of his bags and stowing everything away in the walk in closet, Roger tries to stay tuned in to any commotion in the hallway. 

Accommodation for each of the players attending is arranged for but Roger isn’t actually sure when any of them are flying in. The team presentation in the town square is set for tomorrow afternoon, so unless they have any stragglers everyone should be here by then. His fingers twitch towards his phone, but he restrains himself. No need to appear overbearing now.

He forces himself to wait another hour as he takes a long shower and changes into something less casual before striding through the hall and taking the elevator down to the lobby. As Roger steps out he immediately discovers Dominic and Sascha, the two of them seated on one of the sofas with their luggage strewn around them. 

Both of them stand when he comes over, Dominic the first to clasp his hand. “Good to see you, Roger. Thank you for the invitation, it’s a big honor.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Roger says, automatically falling into German. “They added Nick to the roster, we’ll have our work cut out for us.” 

“We won’t let you down.” Sascha says earnestly, shaking his hand as well. Roger suppresses a sigh. Nothing ever makes him feel quite as old as the wide-eyed admiration many of the younger players are so prone to. 

In his experience, it’s best to simply ignore it. “You guys checked in yet?” 

Dominic nods. “We were just waiting to see whether any of the others might show up as well. We already ran into Marin earlier, he flew in from the States.” 

“Well, he’ll still be jetlagged,” Roger says, feeling some of his anxiety ease at the thought that most of their team has made their way here already. He isn’t the only one taking this seriously. “Want to grab some coffee while we wait?”

They settle at one of the hotel restaurant tables closest to the lobby and soon fall into an easy conversation, Roger glad for the opportunity to be able to use his mother tongue for once. Mirka’s and his decision to bring up the kids trilingual would undoubtedly serve them well later on, but it often led to a strange mishmash of English, German and Slovak being thrown around. 

He isn’t sure how much time has passed, when Dominic all of a sudden sits up a little straighter, diverting everyone’s attention back to the reception area. 

Roger is on his feet and halfway through the lobby before the sight of Rafa walking towards them fully catches up with him and he can’t help the smile forming on his face. 

“Roger.” Rafa’s hand feels warm in his own as he pulls him into a hug, the familiar scent of his cologne making something at the base of Roger’s spine uncurl pleasantly. 

He’s still smiling when they both pull back and take in each other’s expression. “I wasn’t sure you’d get in today.”

“Is probably best, no?” Rafa’s gaze settles on something over his shoulder, but Roger is reluctant to turn around and face the others just yet. “Am I last one to arrive?”

“Nearly. Fernando hasn’t shown up yet.” 

Rafa grins. “Always the Spaniards.”

“You said it, not me,” Roger teases. “Not to brag, but us Germans have been here for hours already.” 

“You’re Swiss,” Rafa says with a derisive slap against Roger’s chest. They’re still standing very close, Roger realizes with a small jolt of surprise. 

“And we’re famous for making watches. Draw your own conclusion.” 

Rafa’s laugh sparks something warm and easy in him that doesn’t dissipate when he finally steps aside and watches as Dominic and Sascha greet Rafa with the same reverence they showed him earlier. It’s nice to know he’s not the only one being treated like a relic and if it bothers Rafa, he doesn’t show it, talking easily with the guys. Roger notes with amusement that Dominic appears to freeze every time Rafa reaches out and touches his arm, like he’s wont to do when making a point. 

Why his mind seems insistent on tracking each and every one of Rafa’s movements, Roger chooses not to examine too closely. 

*

 

Dinner is a spirited affair, if a little exhausting. To Roger’s surprise everyone has arrived already, including their team captains. Both of them are great guys, but neither are what Roger would call extroverts. Björn seems satisfied to sit at the head of their table and observe the lot of them, only sparingly speaking up to interject something. It’s up to Roger to keep the conversation going and he’s glad to see Rafa doing the same on his end of the table, smiling every time when Roger manages to catch his gaze.

By the time they return to the hotel most of the group has dispersed and Roger finds himself alone with Rafa as they take the elevator up to the top floor. Rafa looks tired and Roger nudges him with his elbow, watching with satisfaction when it makes Rafa smile. “You alright?” 

“Yes, fine. Just- lot of talking, no?” 

“They’ll loosen up in time.” Roger frowns. “I hope. At what point did we become so intimidating?” 

Now Rafa’s laughing fully, leaning against the mirror behind him. “You? Long time ago. Everyone too scared to talk to you then.” 

Roger kicks lightly at his shin just as the elevator grinds to a halt and the doors open. “ _You_ weren’t.” 

Rafa throws him a disbelieving look as they step out into the hallway. “I was worst one.” 

“You weren’t scared to talk to me, you just didn’t know any English,” Roger scoffs. 

It’s true, too. From the moment they met, even with the language barrier, Rafa never acted as awestruck around Roger as all the others did. Even when most of his interviews about Roger consisted of what could be mostly described as gushing, whenever they actually came face to face, he showed little hesitation to act like Roger’s peer. Certainly not on court. 

At a time when almost everyone had considered him to be peerless, that behavior unsettled Roger. And even more unsettling was how little he resented Rafa for it. Their connection was there from the beginning, even when most of their interactions consisted of smiles and conversations that were made up of more hand gestures than actual words. Mirka asked him about it once and Roger could only shrug helplessly and tell her the truth. No matter what happened between them on court, Roger was never able to not like _Rafa_. It just wasn’t possible. 

“They are good guys.” 

It takes Roger a second to remember what they were talking about. “They are.” He huffs a laugh. “It’s just…were we ever that young?” 

They arrive at Rafa’s door, which is right across from his own and Rafa turns to raise an eyebrow at him as he inserts his key card. “You say we are old now?” 

“Compared to these guys? Kind of, yeah,” Roger says. Somehow it comes out more seriously than he meant it to and he watches as something in Rafa’s eyes softens. 

“I don’t think we old yet, Roger. Just,” he waves his hand dismissively. “Less hair now.”

Roger laughs in spite of himself and Rafa grins. “Still won everything, no?” 

“Yeah,” Roger smiles, because he can’t help it, not with Rafa looking at him like that. “We did.” 

Something occurs to him. “Hey, I forgot. Congratulations on New York. You were incredible.” He sent a text right after, but it seems crazy they’ve spent the entire night together and the subject hasn’t come up yet. “Sorry I didn’t make it to the semis.” 

Rafa wrinkles his nose. “Is better like this, no?”

“Oh?” Roger tries very hard to not let the sting of disappointment show. 

“Yes,” Rafa says firmly. “We play final next year. First time we play at US Open, has to be final.” 

Roger’s chest feels too tight all of a sudden. It’s the ease of those words, the certainty that twelve months from now things won’t have changed a bit and they’ll still be fighting each other for the Slams. Like it’s just a matter of time until they both make it to Arthur Ashe on a Sunday. Like they haven’t been defying the laws of time and probability this year already. Like the two of them will just go on forever like this, alone in their own little world with no one but each other for company and competition.

Somehow, standing here with Rafa it seems more possible than it should be. So Roger agrees “Next year.” and watches Rafa’s smile bloom in return. 

*

Watching Rafa toss tennis balls into the cheering crowd below, Roger allows himself to believe for the first time that this just might work. Prague’s old town square is packed and everyone seems to be having a blast so far, the players included. There’s a thrill of excitement in the air, a nearly nervous energy surrounding them all. Rod has tears in his eyes when he greets Roger and for once the enormity of what they’re about to undertake and what it might mean for the sport is exhilarating instead of scary. The weather hasn’t let them down either and Roger actually starts to feel a little uncomfortable in his suit by the time the photographers are done arranging them for the pictures. 

Once they’re being herded back to the vans, Roger finds himself hanging back with Rafa as they watch the rest of their team pile into one vehicle. Tony finds them a minute later with Björn, Thomas and another guy in tow that Roger can’t immediately place, until he catches sight of the press pass around his neck. Right. Leave it to Tony to make the most of this situation. For a second he’s irritated at being left in the dark, but then something vaguely stirs at the back of his head and he realizes that Tony probably told him. It just slipped his mind with everything else going on. 

“There you are. Roger, Rafa, I believe you’ve met Chris Clarey from the Times? I figured you guys could do the interview on the way back.” 

“Sure.” Roger is nothing if not an accomplished bullshitter. Rafa either has tapped into the same well, or he just has a better memory than Roger since he doesn’t look surprised when shaking Chris’ hand to greet him.

They climb into the van waiting for them, Björn and Thomas in the back and Roger seated in the first row with Rafa, Chris right between them. The setting is so informal that Roger is already starting to unwind a little, more than he’s usually comfortable with when doing an interview. Chris starts them off with standard queries both of them have answered before, but it’s obvious he’s most curious about the doubles. Everyone is. 

Roger’s gotten good at answering this particular question, at inserting just the right amount of levity to keep things from veering into too serious territory. The last thing he needs is for the whole world to know just how nervous he is about this. How nervous they both are. It probably seeps through regardless, even as Rafa quips about their age and Roger teases him for being so excited. After all this time, it’s hard to remain level-headed about the prospect of sharing a court with Rafa. 

They’re halfway back to the hotel when Chris stops scribbling notes and leans back, glancing at the notepad in his hand. “Okay, guys, just one final question. Your rivalry has been so central for the sport in the past decade and obviously it’s important to you as well. Do you think that, especially with looking back at this season, either of you would have achieved so much without the other?” 

Roger blinks. It’s not that he hasn’t heard this question before, but it still trips him up every time. Imagining his career without Rafa became an impossibility a long time ago. Glancing across to Rafa, Roger catches him raising an eyebrow and realizes he is waiting for Roger to answer first. He can’t quite bear to tear his gaze away when he does. 

“In some ways I believe yes, and in some ways I believe no. I believe that because of Rafa, maybe I achieved less, but at the same time, I feel like he made me a better player.”

Rafa smiles at him then, a rueful twitch at the corner of his mouth that Roger’s seen on his face after every single one of his victories when approaching Roger at the net. It’s gone by the time Chris has turned his attention to him and Rafa’s voice is quiet when he answers. 

“I have my personal motivation, but of course to have somebody in front of you, it is easier to see the things you need to improve.” 

“They uncover you,” Roger says, without quite meaning to. “They undress you.”

It takes him a second to realize just how revealing that sounds and he can feel Chris’ curious gaze on him, the sudden silence laden with implications. Rafa’s voice breaks the spell. 

“Exactly,” he says, like Roger didn’t just use the most poorly chosen words possible to try and express what impact they had on one another over the years. How they’d broken each other, for all the world to see, so many times. How laid bare it made you feel to do your very best and still fail just short of the finish line. How your opponent was somehow _more_ than you in those moments, in seemingly every single way. Better, faster, stronger. Worthier. Leave it to Rafa to understand all of that. 

Then again, who else possibly could? 

*

Of course he’s the one to introduce Rafa. Tony offered to have someone give him some prepared remarks before the dinner, but Roger declined. He doesn’t need cue cards for this. And if he felt any apprehension, Rafa’s grin when he finally steps onto the stage is worth it. Their half-armed hug doesn’t linger for more than a second and it feels strange to be touching like this in front of so many people without a net between them and the ache of a four hour match in his bones. 

Once they’re finally ushered to their tables, Roger is relieved to see that Rafa has been seated right next to him, with Thomas on the other side. They spent the entire day doing more interviews for the press in between their practice sessions and Roger hasn’t relished the thought of playing the entertainer again tonight. Sinking down next to him, Rafa looks about as done with the whole affair as Roger feels; and they share a commiserating glance as the waiters around them start filling their glasses. 

“You want to rethink whether we’re too old for all of this now?” Roger mutters under his breath and watches Rafa hide his snort by taking a sip of water.

“Is not the age, I think. I never like these things,” Rafa replies, leaning in so they won’t be overheard. Sitting so closely together, Roger just barely catches a hint of Rafa’s cologne, something clear and sharp that reminds him of the sea. 

“No, I guess you didn’t.” 

Over the years Roger has watched Rafa become more comfortable in these formal settings, but no one who actually knows him would mistake that growing ease for enjoyment. The trappings of fame and glamour always seem to slide off Rafa like he’s covered in well-oiled feathers instead of the three thousand dollar suit he’s wearing tonight. Roger has always been strangely charmed by that, maybe because it’s so different from his own experience. 

Rafa must be thinking along the same lines, because he nudges Roger’s shoulder with his own, smiling a little when he catches his gaze. “Is your thing, no? Gala dinner, fashion show. The great Roger Federer.” 

The words would make him bristle coming from anyone else. When Rafa says them, it somehow sounds more fond than mocking and Roger can’t help but laugh in response. “Yeah, well. I’m just not in the mood tonight, I guess.” 

Rafa keeps looking at him and there’s something in his gaze that makes Roger want to curl up out of sight. “It will be okay, Roger. We just gonna try our best tomorrow.” 

It’s silly really. For months Tony, Severin and even Mirka have been telling him the exact same thing. There’s no reason for it to suddenly become more reassuring just because it’s coming from Rafa. But there it is. As they lean back and turn towards the conversation around their table, Roger suddenly thinks of last year and his visit at Rafa’s newly opened academy. Back then so much of it had felt like the final steps in their chapter of history together. Sitting here now, with three days full of uncertainty ahead of them he can’t help the fierce joy for everything that has happened to them this year. He’s really glad Rafa is here with him. 

*

The roar of the crowd when they enter the arena for the team presentation takes Roger by surprise. Tony told him about the sessions being sold out but he wasn’t expecting a welcome quite like this, not away from the four hallowed grounds that draw most of the excitement during the tennis season. It makes a thrill run down his spine as he glances around the packed venue, so different from any other place he’s played at with the black court and the focused lighting. After all this time, it’s difficult to believe this is actually happening. 

The surrealism of the entire affair still clings to him as they settle down to watch Marin get ready to play Frances. Having Rafa right next to him doesn’t really help with that. With all the preparation and lead-up they went through, it doesn’t seem real to be sitting here right now and he has to constantly resist the crazy urge to touch Rafa, like he might go up in smoke if Roger tried. Everyone else appears to be jittery as well, especially Sascha and Dominic, which Roger can’t fault them for. He’s glad there’s no match scheduled for him today. 

Marin doesn’t make it easy on them but he scrapes through his two tiebreakers and the relief that spreads through Roger afterwards isn’t just due to the score line. The match was hard fought, nothing like what you might see at an exhibition. The crowd has noticed, too and the atmosphere heats up even further when Dominic takes the court against John and they take their first tiebreak to a 15-17 final score, Rafa jumping from his seat as soon as John converts the set point. 

It’s odd, Roger thinks as he watches Rafa talking intensely to Dominic on the bench. He never expected anything but full commitment from Rafa but seeing him like this, all hand gestures and nervous energy, still makes something warm and aching contract in his chest. He knocks their shoulders together gently when Rafa returns. “How’s he doing?”

“Too nervous.” Rafa chews on his bottom lip, never taking his eyes off the court where Dominic is getting ready to serve. 

Roger on the other hand hasn’t stopped watching Rafa. “What did you tell him?” 

Rafa finally turns and raises an eyebrow at him as he replies, completely deadpan. “Don’t be nervous.”

Somehow Roger manages to keep his expression neutral. “Now I see how you got those sixteen Slams.” 

They both turn back to the match, but Roger can feel Rafa’s silent laughter where their shoulders are still pressed together. Thankfully Dominic pulls through in the super tiebreak and by the time Sascha takes on Denis after the break in between sessions, they’re up two points in the overall score. Rafa leaves halfway through the match with Thomas to get ready for the doubles and Roger tries to pick up the slack by encouraging the others to cheer twice as hard. He doesn’t think he entirely succeeds. Something about Rafa just seems to energize the whole team when he’s out here with them. 

Sascha is beaming when he approaches them after his handshake, disappearing backstage quickly after they shower him with congratulations. Roger tells himself to relax even as his stomach seems intent on knotting itself into a ball of nervous tension. They’ve got a head start now, so the outcome of the doubles match won’t be as important. It’s a good thing, too. Mere minutes after Nick hits the first serve of the match, Roger can tell this isn’t going to end well. 

Thomas is floundering and even though Rafa is doing his utmost to pull him through, even he can’t win a doubles match all on his own, which doesn’t stop him from trying. Hiding a wince when Thomas fails to convert an easy putaway at the net once again, Roger sternly tries to quell the tiniest bit of satisfaction he feels at the display. No matter what happens in the next two days, he knows damn well he’ll make a better doubles partner for Rafa than Thomas at least. 

Rafa somehow manages to take them to the third set. How, Roger won’t even be sure after rewatching the entire match weeks later. But Nick and Jack keep up the pressure in the final tiebreak and after Thomas once more hits an unforced error it’s the first point for Team World that day. Rafa is composed in the interview afterwards, but Roger feels bad for Thomas who still seems upset when they all spill into the backstage area, Sascha and Dominic talking excitedly about their matches as they get ready to leave.

Roger stays. He doesn’t need to, not really, he hasn’t even played a match today and he’s done some interviews in between the sessions earlier. But Thomas gives him a weak smile when he sees Roger on one of the benches as he exits the shower, tossing his bag to the floor as he pulls out a fresh shirt. “Are you here to tell me to cheer up?” 

“Kind of,” Roger admits. “Look, don’t feel bad about this. We’re doing great so far and you guys almost made it in the third anyway.”

Thomas laughs, though he doesn’t sound particularly amused. “You mean Rafa almost made it. I played like shit.”

“Well,” Roger starts but Thomas waves him off before he can say anything else. “Don’t. We both know it’s true. I would have drowned out there without him today. It’s okay, I’ll do better in the singles.” 

“Yeah,” Roger agrees hastily, relieved that Thomas doesn’t seem to be taking it too hard after all. He’s never been too good at consoling people, it’s one of the things Mirka always teases him about. 

“You coming?” Thomas has finished pulling on his clothes and is shouldering his bag, glancing at Roger expectantly. 

Roger finds himself shaking his head. “I’ll wait for Rafa. See you tomorrow.” 

“Sure.” Thomas gives him a half-hearted wave and disappears into the hallway, the door closing behind him with a hollow boom. 

It takes Rafa another fifteen minutes to appear and when he does he doesn’t look half as surprised to find Roger sitting there as Thomas did. He’s not wearing anything except a towel around his hips and when he drops his stuff right next to Roger on the bench, a stray droplet of water gets flung onto his arm, making him break out in goosebumps. 

“They send someone?” Rafa asks as he bends down to dig through his bag, jerking his chin towards the door leading to the hallway. 

Roger clears his throat. “Not yet. Thomas left already, they’re probably still busy with him.”

“I hate doing the press like this,” Rafa grumbles, finally locating the pair of shorts he was looking for. 

Roger has to laugh. “I doubt anyone likes doing press after a loss. At least it wasn’t your fault.”

Rafa gives him a puzzled look. “I was on court, no?” 

_Unlike Thomas_ , Roger thinks, a little meanly, but it’s not the sort of thing he would ever say to Rafa. Instead he just shrugs, peeling the label off the bottle of water in his hands. “We’ll just have to do a better job tomorrow.” 

Rafa’s voice is momentarily muffled as he pulls on his shirt. “Tomorrow?” 

“Björn wants us to play the doubles session then.” Roger’s stomach does a lazy somersault at the thought. Even with the assurance that it’s bound to go better than today, he can’t keep himself from being nervous. 

“Last match, no?” Rafa frowns a little. “No pressure.” 

Roger snorts. “Well, we’re used to that, right?” He grabs Rafa’s jacket which has slid between his bag and Roger’s thigh. “Here.”

Their fingers touch briefly when Rafa takes it from him to pull it on. “You come to the interviews?” 

Roger shakes his head. “I’ll meet you when you’re done? We can take a car back together.” 

Rafa gives him a small smile, grateful. “You are not tired?”

Roger spreads his hands. “I didn’t play, did I?”

He doesn’t mention that he would have waited for Rafa regardless. 

*

It’s after midnight when they slide into the waiting van and it doesn’t escape Roger’s notice how Rafa immediately shifts himself sideways to take pressure off his legs. Before he can stop himself, Roger has reached out and his hand is resting against Rafa’s right knee. It feels deceptively normal for something that has caused Rafa so much grief. 

“Are you alright? There’s no pain, is there?” 

“No.” Rafa’s voice is quiet in the darkness between them. “Is just habit.” 

“Good.” For some reason he can’t bring himself to pull his hand away. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” 

“Will happen again,” Rafa says flatly, completely matter of fact. “Just question when.” 

Something inside Roger aches at that. “You don’t know that. Your treatment is working so far, isn’t it?” 

“Is no cure, no?” Rafa shrugs. “With 31 years, is not going to get better now than when I had 25. What we do, is not healthy for the body. You know this.” 

Roger does of course. Maybe he’s been reminded less often than Rafa over the course of his career, but after last year it’s never quite gone from his mind. They’re all living on borrowed time. 

“Mirka wants me to retire.” 

He doesn’t mean to say it. Hell, he doesn’t even mean to think it and even after the words are out and hanging heavily in the air between them, Roger isn’t sure where they came from. Rafa’s bare skin is still warm beneath his fingers and when Roger tries to withdraw his hand, maybe trying to withdraw from the entire conversation, he’s not sure, Rafa grabs onto his wrist before he can quite manage to.

The rushing by streetlights make it hard to completely make out Rafa’s expression but Roger can feel his eyes on him. “She tell you this?” 

He doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s not fair to Mirka, not by a long shot. And if it was anyone but Rafa, maybe he’d be able to keep his mouth shut. At least that’s what he tells himself later. 

“No, she never said anything. She doesn’t have to.” Roger uses the hand Rafa isn’t holding onto to rub at the bridge of his nose. “But I know she’s thinking it.”

Rafa doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t let go of Roger’s hand either, just keeps looking at him in the semi darkness as words he’s barely dared to give conscious thought to keep spilling from his mouth in a rush. 

“I mean, I know it would make sense, it’s not like I haven’t thought about it myself. The girls need to be in school and it’s hard to keep traveling when they’re not with me and the boys are growing up, too. To be honest, neither of us really thought I would still be playing at this point when Mirka first got pregnant, you know? And what are the odds I’ll ever have a season like this again? I mean, two Slams? If I retire now, no one would be able to say I didn’t do it at the top of my game. Would be the perfect ending, right? I mean, realistically speaking, at 36-” 

“Roger.” Rafa’s voice is quiet, but it stops Roger in his tracks. “You want to stop playing?” 

Roger’s eyes feel too hot all of a sudden and his voice barely raises above a croak. “No.” 

The truth is that the thought of ending his career is probably the scariest thing he can imagine, apart from anything happening to the kids. Tennis is his life. There’s nothing he enjoys more than stepping onto court and becoming something more than just himself. Something that will outlast his own time by far. Something that will go down in the history this sport writes. 

He feels Rafa’s shrug more than he’s able to see it. “Then it no matter what anyone thinks, no?” 

They’re both silent for a moment, the hum of the car the only sound around them. Roger’s voice is soft when he finally answers. “This life makes you selfish.” 

Rafa laughs, but he doesn’t sound amused. “I promise Mary long time ago, when I retire we can have kids, family. And now, still playing tennis.”

Roger feels the ache expressed in those words. He’s often tried to imagine what it might feel like to have to wait for someone like that. To put your life on hold and watch the person you love pursue something that inexplicably meant more or at least as much to them as what the two of you had together. He’s never been brave enough to ask Mirka. 

“Do you regret it sometimes? Doing what we do? What it does to our relationships?” 

Rafa’s eyes are even darker than usual in this light. “Never.” 

It makes Roger want to laugh in dizzy, horribly guilty relief. “Me neither.” 

They still haven’t let go of each other’s hand. The silence stretches and _fills_ in the space between them, growing heavy with unspoken words as neither of them manages to tear their gaze away. Roger feels very calm of a sudden. 

The knock against the partition startles them both and Roger snatches his hand away, heart starting to beat fast against his ribcage, like a trapped bird trying to take flight. The car isn’t moving anymore. They must have arrived at the hotel at some point. Neither of them noticed. 

As they slide out of the van and wave their thanks to the driver, climbing the stairs to the hotel entrance side by side without looking at each other, Roger can’t help but think that the ground beneath his feet feels like the ledge of a cliff they both just barely managed to step back from in time. He doesn’t want to think about what would have happened if the driver didn’t interrupt them.

_You know exactly what_ , the little voice that sounds so much like Mirka whispers. _Stop trying to kid yourself_. 

*

The first thing he does when the door to his room closes behind him is to call Mirka. It’s late, too late really, but she picks up on the second ring, like she’s been waiting for his call. Despite the urgent need to hear her voice, once it’s actually there, all the words dry up in his throat. The guilt sits like a stone in his chest, unforgiving and cold. He has no idea what to say. 

“Hey, you.” Her voice is warm, so unbearably and wonderfully familiar. “Honey, you have no idea how proud I am.” 

He swallows hard, hopes to hell his voice won’t give out when he answers. “Yeah?”

“The TV’s been on the entire day, everyone watched it. They can’t say enough good things about it, Roger, I’ve been getting calls all day.” 

“Really?” Maybe. Maybe if he sticks to one word answers she won’t notice how completely off-kilter he feels. How completely undone he is by a thing that didn’t even happen.

“Yes, really!” Her laughter would be infectious at any other time. “The media reaction has been insane, hasn’t Tony sent you something by now?” 

“I haven’t really looked at my messages yet,” Roger says and to his own surprise the words come out almost steady. “That good?”

“Better,” she replies and he can hear her smile. “This is going to be huge. Listen, I’ve gotta go, the house is still full of people. Everyone sends their love. Let’s talk sometime in the morning?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Agreement never felt so much like a betrayal. 

She tells him she loves him and he says he loves her, too. The worst part is that he means it. 

Roger doesn’t put his phone away when the call is disconnected, instead scrolling through a backlog of congratulatory messages to get to one Tony sent him a couple of hours earlier. There’s lots of links to articles, but Roger barely skims them, instead opening the attached media file to get to the folder simply labeled ‘day 1’. Then he can do nothing but stare, dumbfounded even as he keeps swiping, almost in a trance.

It’s pictures. Loads of them, which Roger expected, but most aren’t even showing the matches that were played today. Instead the teams watching apparently drew most of the attention and one image comes up over and over again, like a flip book, only slight variations in theme. Roger and Rafa. Talking, laughing, touching, standing shoulder to shoulder, sitting thigh to thigh. At the team presentation. Before entering the arena. Watching Dominic play. Watching Sascha play. Roger’s hand on Rafa’s thigh, on his collar. Bending close to whisper something. It’s an entire album full of evidence of something Roger never wanted confirmed anyway, least of all like this. 

Roger’s always known he’s not straight. It’s never bothered him and when he told Mirka very early on in their relationship it didn’t bother her either. In fact, it brought them closer together, the trust over a shared secret that both of them knew could derail an aspiring athlete’s career in an instant if the wrong people got a hold of the story. It’s not like it ever mattered anyway, not after Sydney. He met Mirka and he loved her nearly from the moment he first saw her. Utterly, completely, irrevocably. 

Over the years, the fact that he’s attracted to guys as well has become nothing more than an aside of Roger’s personality, a footnote in the book of things Mirka knows about him. He likes eating oranges but hates the way they stain his hands when he has to peel them. He loves the mountains and misses them every time they’re away from home which is almost all the time now. He thought of the names for their children years before they ever decided to have any. And yes, he’s into guys as well as women. 

The only time they ever even mention it is when they talk about the odd tendrils of attraction they might feel towards others now and then, or if Mirka asks him to share a fantasy when they’re in bed together. Roger never hesitates to tell her. She knows about his first kiss with his roommate Sebastian when he was at the academy and about his embarrassing crush on Marat when he first came on tour. She even knows about that one time when one of the on hold physios at an early US Open gave him a deep tissue massage that made it difficult to get off the table afterwards without embarrassing himself. When he told her about that one, she laughed until there were tears running from her eyes. There are no secrets between them, never have been. 

Except for this. He’s never told Mirka how he feels about Rafa. 

Roger wants to believe that it started out innocently, his own discomfiture at being attracted to the mere teenager who beat him in their first encounter preventing him from admitting anything. But as the years went by and Rafa grew into his cheekbones and shoulders, Roger’s silence turned into something less innocuous at best and something deliberate at worst. There came a point when telling Mirka didn’t seem like a possibility anymore, not without having to explain why he never said anything until then. Not without having to face the uncomfortable truths circling lazily beneath the surface of his silence. Especially the one he usually avoids even thinking about. 

Rafa likes him, too. 

They never had to say anything to one another and by now Roger can’t really remember at what point it became this unacknowledged certainty between them, but it must have been not too shortly after they started clashing in nearly every final. Certainly long before the summer of 2008 and the Australian Open the year after. By then every single one of their interactions was charged with an intensity that couldn’t simply be put down to their professional rivalry, even when everything around them was feeding that very narrative. 

Back then there were so many moments when Roger thought _maybe_. Close calls that turned into what ifs over the years as their lives became less entangled, injuries and family pulling them in different directions. Novak became the one to regularly face Rafa in the finals and Roger tried to pretend it didn’t matter to him when people spoke of that rivalry as something equaling the one they had shared. The heat in his interactions with Rafa never fully went away but it faded to a simmer instead of the boil it used to be, like they mutually agreed on something neither of them ever talked about. 

And now after all this time, here they are once again. Same old dance, steps too familiar to be impacted by time or age. Only this time they each have even more to lose. There are four kids waiting for Roger back home, along with a woman he has loved for more than seventeen years now. People who make him happier than he ever thought possible, who support a life that puts hardships on all of them. It should be enough. For any sane man it would be. 

The thing is though. Roger Federer didn’t win nineteen Grand Slams by not being greedy. 

*

Rafa is late for the team meeting the next morning. For all of the four minutes it takes him to arrive, Roger’s mind keeps spinning out increasingly unlikely scenarios, the worry that last night may have been a miss too many like a vice around his chest. But when Rafa slips through the door with an apologetic wave he immediately crosses the room to take the seat next to Roger, shooting him a distracted smile void of any indication that he’s even thinking about last night, let alone worrying about it. Roger tries to tell himself that what he’s feeling is relief instead of a spike of resentfulness at Rafa’s apparent ease. 

They go over the line-up Björn got from John earlier, but there’s not much left for them to figure out. Roger is the only one who hasn’t played yet so he’ll take the first match before Rafa, with Thomas providing the buffer in between the singles and doubles. When he sees that John put Nick down for the third match Roger nearly winces, hoping that Thomas will be able to put in a better effort than yesterday. Team World’s captain definitely knows what he’s doing, Roger has to give him that. 

Seeing his and Rafa’s names being put down for the doubles makes a thrill of nervous anticipation uncurl in his stomach. It still doesn’t seem entirely real to him. They’ll be on court together in less than ten hours and Roger can’t remember ever feeling this nervous about a tennis match apart from a Slam final. There are jokes flying around the room immediately when Björn disperses the meeting to deliver the final line-up, but Roger doesn’t join in and next to him, Rafa is quiet, too. 

“They all think there’s no way we can lose.” Roger pitches his voice low, eyes still on their teammates milling about the room. He can feel Rafa looking at him, but doesn’t turn his head.

“Is not important what they think. We know there is always chance to lose. Every match.” Rafa is silent for a moment. “This one there is even better chance.” 

Roger huffs a laugh. “Not filling me with confidence here, Raf.” 

But Rafa isn’t smiling. “Is the difference between us and them, no?”

“Knowing we can lose?”

Rafa looks at him then and Roger doesn’t think he’s imagining the quick flash of _something_ in his dark eyes. “Still taking the chances.” 

Roger’s mouth feels too dry all of a sudden. He struggles to come up with an answer that won’t reveal exactly what he’s trying very hard not to think about and is almost dizzy with relief when Sascha interrupts them before he can try. 

“You guys coming? We want to grab an early lunch before the session.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Roger agrees, probably too quickly. He doesn’t dare look at Rafa when he gets up.

“Rafa?” Sascha has gotten a lot better at appearing at ease around them over the past couple of days but there’s still just a little bit of awe in the way he says Rafa’s name. 

“Sorry.” Rafa sounds genuinely apologetic. “My family, they fly in this morning, no? I tell them earlier I meet them now.” 

“Oh,” Sascha says. “Of course, man, see you later.” 

“You didn’t tell me they were coming,” Roger says once Sascha is gone and regrets it immediately when Rafa’s eyebrow ticks up in surprise.

“They only decide yesterday. More for the shopping than the tennis I think.” He smiles a little and Roger could leave it at that, in fact he really, really should. 

He knows he’s not going to. “Is Mary here, too?” 

Rafa doesn’t exactly flinch but it’s close, the line of his back suddenly tense before he straightens and meets Roger’s gaze head on. “No,” he says quietly, expression inscrutable. “No, she did not come.”

*

Later on Roger will often wonder what would have happened had the events on that Saturday played out any differently. Whether an alteration in variables would have possibly shifted the ultimate outcome, or whether after thirteen years they had finally arrived at the inevitable, no more way to go but down. If they simply walked all the roads they could possibly tread on, only for it all to come to a head in Prague. 

Roger doesn’t lose his match. Neither does Rafa when he takes the court right after. They don’t get to see much of each other playing and when Thomas takes on Nick they’re both backstage, trying to prepare for the last match of the day, only catching snatches off the screens mounted in the makeshift gym. Their doubles matchup is all anyone has been talking about all day and Roger has given up looking at his phone, the flood of messages wreaking havoc on his already tense state of mind. 

Rafa’s company is the only one he’s able to truly tolerate as they wait, minutes ticking by in that agonizingly disjointed way that’s too fast and yet torturously slow at the same time. And although Roger suspects they’re winding each other up even further by their mere presence, neither of them seems to be able to resist the pull that keeps them gravitating back to one another. Time passes in a flurry of jittery laughter and fleeting touches as they pace around the confined backstage area and when they get the heads up from Thomas, there’s little else to do but slip into their final preparations. 

The team seeing them off in the locker room and the final wait in the tunnel all happen within a haze that only dissipates when their names are called and they walk into the arena to the roar of the crowd. Everything focuses into almost overly sharp colors for Roger then, adrenaline keeping him firmly tethered to the present as they arrange their bags around the bench and join the others for the coin toss at the net. They win and Roger says ‘Receive’ without even thinking about it, already moving to the back of the court. And then they’re off.

Rafa is like a live wire next to him, radiating energy and focus so sharp Roger can’t help but think that he might feel a current on contact. Maybe that’s why his hands constantly seek out Rafa when they finish a point, the only possible way of grounding them both in reality. They start off shaky and Roger is already regretting his recent lack of doubles match play by the time it’s his turn to cover the net, even with Rafa’s solid presence on the baseline behind him. They make it through their first few service games but get in trouble once they’re back on Rafa’s serve, Roger’s easy miss gifting Sam and Jack a breakpoint. 

They get lucky when a volley Roger meant to place into the ad court somehow drifts to the very edge of the line making it deuce but their opponents have dug their way into the game and Roger can tell Rafa is getting tight by the time they’re nearing the ten minute mark. His back is a line of tension when Roger puts a hand on him as they walk back to the baseline and before he can even really think about it, Roger digs his fingers in a little deeper, putting pressure on the small of Rafa’s back. 

He doesn’t need to say anything, knows Rafa will get the message regardless. His next serve ends up driving Sam wide as he dumps the return into the net. They hold and even though Rafa nearly takes his head off with his racket in the next game, they hit their stride as they break for the lead in the first set. After that it all becomes a bit of a blur as they settle into their new dynamic, both of them so caught up in each other that at more than one point they’re jerked from their pre-point deliberations by the laughter ringing around the venue because they’re taking so long. 

They lose their focus in the second set and afterwards Roger will be hard pressed to figure out what the problem was, never mind how they suddenly found themselves faced with a 6-1 score line. Mostly what he’ll remember is Rafa. His voice, pitched low as they stand shoulder to shoulder before their serve, hand raised to mask the words. The humor he’s usually so devoid of on court shining through every time they miss an easy ball, quirking that eyebrow at Roger as if they’re both in on a private joke. The confident stride back to the baseline after each point, already reaching for Roger’s offered hand as they slide their palms together, touch base. Everything else sort of fades into the background.

They settle down for the changeover before the tiebreak and going by the commotion behind the bench, their teammates are feeling nervy about their chances, though no one actually approaches them. For once, Rafa doesn’t exchange a single word with Roger as they sip their water side by side and wait for the signal from the umpire. There’s no need to. 

Roger can feel himself entering that zone only high pressure moments within a match bring along and when they get up as one to return to their baseline position, he doesn’t need to look at Rafa to know that he’s right there with him. These are the moments when champions are made and there are no bigger champions in their sport than the two of them. 

They clinch it with one of Roger’s forehands, Sam unable to direct the ball anywhere but the net and then Rafa’s in his arms, feeling warm and sweaty and almost thrumming with happiness and relief. The aftermath of the match swirls along in a reel of moments that are over too quickly for Roger to entirely process them. Their team congratulating them, the on-court interview before either of them even gets a chance to change, the lightning fast showers and the presser immediately afterwards. The only constant is Rafa, sharing in the giddiness Roger himself is feeling as they answer question after question until Roger can’t even remember what half of their responses were. 

And then it’s over. Everyone is hustling to get some rest after a long day and Roger goes back to the locker room to get his bags and place a quick call to Mirka before returning to the pick-up area for their car service back to the hotel. When he gets there, Rafa is already waiting for him, his own bags at his feet as he chats with the driver through the open passage window. The sight makes something ache inside of Roger, even as the feeling of teetering on the very edge of something intensifies. 

“You’re not having dinner with your family?” It’s maybe an hour before midnight, but Roger knows Rafa’s eating habits too well to presume anything from that. 

“I tell them we need to celebrate, no?” The words are innocent enough. No reason at all for Roger’s breath to still the way it does, for his heart to pound fast, so fast. 

Rafa doesn’t wait for a reply, maybe sensing that none is forthcoming. Instead he opens the door to the backseat and slides inside after throwing his bags in first, leaving Roger standing there on the curb. 

It would be so easy now to simply close the door. Slam it shut, rap his knuckles on the roof for the van to take off. Wait for another car and let all of this pass him by once more. Go back to the hotel on his own, maybe even call Mirka again when he gets there. Ask about the kids, tell her everything that’s happened today. It’s the right thing to do. 

Roger gets in the car. 

*

 

They don’t talk on the ride back, but halfway there Rafa reaches out in the semi-darkness to lace their fingers together, hands resting on the empty seat in between them. When the car stops in front of the hotel they’re out in an instant, waving off the staff’s attempts to take care of their bags as they head towards the elevator. There’s no one in the hallway when they disembark and the thick carpeting swallows the sounds of their steps as they cross the final distance to their rooms, silence heavy around them. 

Roger keys his door open without looking at Rafa, keeping his eyes firmly fixed to the floor as he slips his bag off his shoulder and steps inside. The suite is dark, the only source of light the dim glitter of Prague’s city lights from the windows. Stepping towards them without quite knowing why, Roger pretends the soft _snick_ of the door closing behind him is not making his heart leap into his throat, his skin prickling with anticipation. 

Rafa’s shoulder brushes against his own as he joins Roger at the window, both of them gazing silently at the city laid out beneath. Their hands find their way to each other again, the warmth of Rafa’s palm against his own only feeding the deep ache that’s threatening to consume him. It’s impossible then not to look at Rafa and once he does, Roger can’t tear is gaze away. 

The dim glow paints Rafa’s features in soft, almost otherworldly lines, like something an Italian painter may have tried and probably failed to capture in one of their works a few centuries ago. His eyes are even darker than usual and they’re fixed on him unfailingly, like he’s the only thing worth looking at even in the face of Prague’s midnight beauty. Roger wants him so much it hurts. He opens his mouth, no idea what he’s about to say except that it will probably embarrass him later. He never gets the chance. 

Rafa kisses him and Roger’s mind goes very, very quiet. 

That first brush of lips can’t last for more than a few seconds but when Rafa pulls back to look at him they’re both breathing hard, the only sound in the surrounding silence. Rafa’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips and the sight causes any still functioning thought in Roger to short circuit, voice thick with want as he raises a hand to trail his fingertips across the stubble on Rafa’s jaw.

“Fuck, Rafa, I’ve wanted- you have no idea how much I-” 

Rafa doesn’t let him finish, just kisses him again instead, hungry, desperate and _perfect_. The soft slide of his tongue sparks something deep and aching at the base of Roger’s spine and he grips Rafa’s hips to bring him in closer, shivering at the contact. This time they don’t pull apart again, hands everywhere as they fumble their way across the room, kissing all the while. Roger isn’t paying enough attention to their surroundings and he comes down hard on Rafa when they stumble onto the bed, the edge of the mattress surprising them both. 

Rafa’s breath hitches when the movement brings the hard line of his cock into contact with Roger’s thigh and it’s too good of an opportunity to pass up, Roger placing his hand against the mattress and driving his hips into Rafa’s, completely enraptured with the response he’s getting. His own cock is straining against the fabric of the track pants he’s still wearing, twitching every time another soft little gasp passes Rafa’s lips. Leaning down to swallow them right from his mouth, Roger slides a hand between them blindly, pushing up Rafa’s shirt and biting back a groan when he finds soft heated skin over hard muscle. 

It’s so easy then to allow his fingers to roam further, to push aside the waist band of Rafa’s shorts until he can take him in hand and stroke from root to tip, relishing in the desperate sounds Rafa tries and fails to bury in Roger’s mouth. God, he’s so _easy_ for Roger’s touch, already spreading his thighs eagerly to give him more room to work with. The realization makes his own cock jerk, the possibilities spinning through his mind like a dizzying reel of color. 

“Tell me,” he breathes against Rafa’s mouth, noting absently how the words make Rafa’s cock twitch in his hand. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“I can’t- Roger-“ Rafa’s voice is wrecked as he tries to answer and if Roger had any mercy, he wouldn’t keep stroking him through it. But it’s like he can’t help himself, every bitten off gasp intoxicating him further as he swipes a thumb across the head of his cock, making Rafa jerk beneath him.

“Tell me,” Roger repeats, finally letting go of Rafa’s cock to slide his hand down further, giving his balls a quick tug before rubbing against his opening, reveling in the sharp intake of breath it elicits. “You want this? You want me to fuck you, baby?” 

“ _Roger._ ” Another choked gasp, Rafa’s hand clasping onto Roger’s wrist, the short nails digging painfully into his skin.

“Yeah, okay,” Roger agrees, already breathless. He presses another sloppy kiss to Rafa’s lips, licks into his mouth like he’s already trying to fuck him and the groan he’s rewarded with is so intoxicating Roger does it again immediately. 

Reluctantly, he pulls his hand from Rafa’s shorts, not resisting the urge to give his cock another squeeze before he does to feel the jerk of Rafa’s hips against his own. Rafa makes a desperate sound and fists his hands in Roger’s shirt, already trying to pull him close again. Roger bends down to kiss his temple. 

“I’ll be right back, we need some stuff.”

The bathroom is too bright after the darkness of the main suite and Roger starts fumbling through the sink drawers almost blindly, tossing aside dental floss, expensive soap and shaving cream until he manages to catch hold of what he’s looking for. As he steps back into the room, he catches a quick glance of himself in the mirror, track pants ridiculously tented by his erection. Wrinkling his nose, he takes the time to shed them, leaving them in the hallway before slipping back into the bedroom. 

The sight that greets him sucks any forward momentum right out of him, leaving him frozen at the doorway, staring. Rafa is gloriously naked on Roger’s bed, clothes discarded all around him on the bed and floor. His hand is moving on his cock and he’s biting his lip in a way that makes Roger want to pry every bit of him apart before putting him back together, only to do it all over again. The dimness of the room makes Rafa’s eyes glint and the shadows dip the hard lines of his body into frustrating obscurity, revealing him only in flashes as he moves against the bedspread. 

It’s the need to put his hands to that soft heated skin again that finally gets Roger moving, pulling his shirt off over his head and tossing the packets in his hand onto the foot of the bed as he approaches. Rafa surprises him when he pushes himself into a sitting position, strong hands drawing Roger close until he’s standing in between Rafa’s legs. There’s only a split second before Roger realizes what’s about to happen and then Rafa is nuzzling against his aching cock, dampening the cloth where he mouths at him through the fabric. 

Roger jerks and swears, his hand moving to grasp the back of Rafa’s neck, feeling the soft hair there curl against his fingers, already damp with sweat. Rafa lets him, even guides Roger’s other hand to rest on his shoulder before hooking his fingers into the waistband of Roger’s shorts and pulling them down. His mouth is on Roger before the cool rush of air against his aching tender skin can even fully register and the sound Roger makes would be embarrassing, if he weren’t far past caring at this point.

Over the years Roger’s fantasy often ran wild where Rafa was concerned, the locker rooms and practice courts providing ample opportunity to snatch glimpses to feed that particular strain of imagination. But nothing, not even a decade of guilty moments in the shower, the water already washing away the evidence of what the thought of Rafa was able to do to him, could have prepared Roger for _this_. He can’t do anything but try desperately to keep his hips from jerking forward and choking Rafa, squirming in near agony when Rafa slips a hand between his thighs to palm his balls as he sucks him.

He’s rushing towards the edge fast and it takes all of Roger’s willpower to not simply give himself over to that feeling, instead using the grip he has on Rafa’s neck to urge him backwards. The slick noise when Rafa pulls his mouth off his cock almost makes his knees buckle and Roger goes with it, pushing Rafa further up the bed as he crawls over him, leaning down to brush their lips together. 

Rafa groans and pushes a hand into his hair, tugging almost painfully when Roger slips his tongue into his mouth. It’s the easiest thing in the world then to use his knee and nudge Rafa’s thighs apart, moving to kneel right in between. Their cocks brush against each other briefly and Rafa trembles against him, head thrown back in a breathless gasp as Roger presses a trail of kisses against his jaw, his neck, the soft dip of his collarbone. His fingers are frantic where he’s clasping onto Roger’s back now, pulling him even closer. 

But Roger won’t let himself be hurried. Now that he finally has Rafa naked and spread out beneath him, shivering pleasantly every time he trails his fingers up and down his side in a soft caress, Roger finds that he’s quite willing to take his time. He keeps kissing Rafa almost lazily, something dark and immensely pleased welling in his chest with every pleading noise being poured into his mouth, drinking in Rafa’s growing desperation as he squirms underneath Roger’s weight. 

A particular restless movement brings Roger’s leg into contact with the supplies he tossed aside so carelessly earlier and he uses Rafa’s distraction to snatch them up unnoticed. Uncapping the tube with one hand is messy, but oh so worth it when he surprises Rafa by pushing two slick fingers inside him, a string of sudden breathless Spanish making Roger hide his grin against Rafa’s neck. He doesn’t understand a word of it, but he wants to hear more so he crooks his fingers gently and pushes just a little more inside. 

It’s been so long since he’s done this but judging from Rafa’s reaction, it’s not a skill easily lost. Adding more lube seems like a very good idea and when he pulls back Rafa makes a noise of protest, only quieting when Roger shushes him absent mindedly, pressing a kiss to his sweat soaked temple. This time he watches Rafa’s face as he slips his fingers back inside, taking primal satisfaction in the way his mouth falls open on a gasp, breath hitching desperately when Roger starts fucking him with his fingers. 

He’s so enraptured by the response that it takes him a moment to realize that Rafa is talking and even longer to register what he’s actually saying, words intermittently disrupted by what Roger thinks must be Spanish, maybe Mallorquín.

“Now, _now_ , Roger, please, you need-“ Rafa cuts himself off with another gasp and for a second Roger is tempted to ignore him, draw this out a little while longer and watch Rafa fall apart completely under his hands. But his own need is taking on a desperate edge now, cock aching and leaking where it’s rubbing against Rafa’s hip, torturous friction that’s soothing and yet not nearly enough at the same time. 

So he pulls his fingers out with no small measure of regret and leans in close to press another kiss to Rafa’s mouth, nuzzling along his jaw to whisper in his ear. “Roll over for me, baby.” 

Rafa suprises him by shaking his head, raising a hand to Roger’s face and tracing the stubble there. “Like this. I want to see.” 

The words hit Roger low in his belly and any protest about comfort and ease dies on his lips, leaving only silent agreement as he nods jerkily, hands shaking when he takes up the lube again, groping around the bedsheet for one of the condoms. Stroking himself becomes an exercise in self-control, made no easier by his very heightened awareness that Rafa is watching him, dark eyes fixed on Roger’s hands and biting his lip all the while. 

He accepts Roger’s kiss eagerly when he draws close again, using one hand to guide himself and placing the other next to Rafa’s head to prop himself up as he pushes inside slowly. God, he’s forgotten how much harder this is with a guy, the initial resistance surprising him, almost making him hesitate. When he’s fully inside, both of them break the kiss to rest their foreheads together, breath warm and humid between them.

“Okay?” Roger asks softly and Rafa just nods, pupils blown wide with arousal. His grip on Roger’s hips must be white-knuckled, but he still shifts into the intrusion, biting at his lip when it causes Roger to slide inside just a little bit further. Roger presses a kiss to the corner of Rafa’s mouth and then he starts to move. 

In all the years he imagined this, Roger came up with dozens of different scenarios, differing wildly in location, context and states of dishevelment. The only thing they always had in common was the pace. With all the pent up frustration and tension between them, Roger was never able to envision this any way but desperate, hard and fast. Reality, he finds, is nothing like he ever thought of and so much sweeter for it. 

Rafa whispers soft nonsensical pleas into the quiet between them, but he’s easily placated by Roger’s mouth against his own, settling into the slow rhythm as Roger pushes into him with unhurried, deep thrusts, pulling nearly all the way out on each stroke only to fill Rafa all over again. The hot knife pleasure ebbs and rolls over him in waves and whenever he draws too close to the edge Roger stills his hips, giving himself room to breathe. He wants this to last, wants to draw it out until they’ll both become untethered from the world around them and simply stay in this perfect slice of reality they dug out for themselves. 

Rafa is the first to come. Roger fucks him through it, slips a hand in between them to stroke him tenderly, listening to Rafa sob with pleasure. It doesn’t take long for him to follow after that and Roger feels something almost like apprehension as he’s being swept off and over the edge, the force of his orgasm whitening out his vision, sending liquid fire along every tendril of his veins. 

When he comes to, Rafa is combing his fingers through his sweat soaked hair, lingering at the nape of his neck and temples on every stroke. He smiles when Roger manages to raise his head from his chest to look at him and when they kiss it is achingly tender and lasts for a long time. 

Soon, Roger knows, they’ll have to come to terms with what just happened here and figure out how they’re going to deal with it. For now though he’s content to let Rafa take his face into his hands and kiss him again, leaving all thought of anything but the two of them for another day. 

*

He wakes to the sound of running water, the light filling the room still pale with early morning hue when he opens his eyes. The sheets next to him are warm when he slides his palm across the bed and it takes Roger a second to remember why, the memory of last night coming back to him in bright, hazy rushes. The doubles. Getting into the car back to the hotel. Rafa. 

He cheated on his wife. The thought is so alien, so completely disconnected to the person Roger always thought himself to be that even now, lying in the bed he very definitely had sex in last night, it doesn’t seem real. Too removed from what his marriage has always been. Happy. Loving. Committed. All the things that are supposed to prevent this sort of thing from happening. 

Roger is still staring at the ceiling when the bathroom door opens, spilling steam and the scent of expensive soap into the room. Rafa always takes ridiculously hot showers. That detail catches in his brain somehow and Roger tries to think of how many of these intimate facts he’s accumulated over the years, the result of living a whole lifetime in each other’s professional orbit. He wonders if Rafa does the same thing. 

It’s impossible then not to turn his head and look. Rafa is standing in the doorway, watching him carefully. Still damp from the shower and only wearing a towel around his hips. Their eyes lock and this has to be the moment, doesn’t it? The crushing regret their actions must lead them to, the consequences of crossing the lines they spent years drawing and willfully disregarded last night. Except that Roger can’t bring himself to feel much regret when he’s looking at Rafa, beautiful beyond belief in the early morning light.

Roger doesn’t think it through. There’s no decision to be made. Maybe there never was, not with Rafa. He won’t be able to blame this on anything but himself, but God, he doesn’t _care _. Searching for rhyme and reason in his relationship with Rafa has been eluding Roger for the past thirteen years. It’s probably best not to try and start now.__

__“Come here.”_ _

__Rafa doesn’t quite smile, but he doesn’t make him wait either, crawling onto the bed with Roger before he’s quite finished speaking, pushing the sheets aside to straddle him. He tastes like mint when he brings their mouths together and Roger is suddenly uncomfortably aware that he never got around to taking a shower before they fell asleep last night. It doesn’t look like he’s going to get a chance to now either, Rafa more than happy to use the position he’s in to grind himself down onto Roger’s lap, towel already coming loose._ _

__This is not a good idea. Aside from all the obvious reasons why it’s not a good idea, they both have matches to play today. A competition to win. Teammates who are relying on them. The final day of an event Roger spent years planning. They really, really shouldn’t. But Roger already knows they’re going to._ _

__Rafa’s skin is still damp when Roger slides his hands beneath the towel to palm his ass, pulling him in even closer. The familiar scent of his own soap on Rafa makes something sharp and possessive uncurl in his gut, fingers digging in tightly and causing Rafa to hiss out his name. He makes no attempt to move from Roger’s grasp though, simply leaning in to catch another kiss. Tugging the towel from his hips is easy then, baring soft skin to the cool air of the room and watching goosebumps spread all over the thick muscle of Rafa’s thighs._ _

__His cock is hard already, leaking between them and Roger’s own erection aches at the sight, hips shifting to push up more firmly against Rafa’s wonderfully naked ass in his lap. It makes Rafa bite his lip, wet curls dipping into his forehead as his head tips forward, breathing hard. God, he’s a sight to behold like this and Roger wants him desperately, bones aching with it._ _

__Their position makes him spare a brief thought to take Rafa exactly like this, nestled in his lap and driving into him from below. The image makes his breath hitch, even as the more rational part of his brain points out the impracticality and strain it would put on both of their bodies’ respective sore spots. In the end he makes Rafa get on his hands and knees, Rafa moving back against Roger impatiently as he tries and finds the discarded lube and condoms that got buried in the sheets last night._ _

__It takes every ounce of control he possesses to not simply slick himself up and push into Rafa once he does, ignoring the bitten off pleas that sink themselves like knives into his belly. Roger’s not made from stone though and in spite of knowing better he ends up giving it to Rafa the way he wouldn’t last night, fast and hard and _perfect_ , Rafa begging him for more with every thrust Roger drives into him from behind. Neither of them lasts long. _ _

__Afterwards they lay side by side, shoulders just barely brushing as they fight to regain their breath, both of them slick with sweat. Roger hums and waits until Rafa glances over, quirking an eyebrow at him._ _

__“Your shower was kind of useless.”_ _

__Rafa huffs a laugh. “Is your fault.”_ _

__“Oh, I don’t know,” Roger replies, rolling onto his side to reach out and slip a hand up Rafa’s thigh. “That towel was pretty short. I think we both share the blame on this one.”_ _

__He means for it to sound light-hearted but somehow it doesn’t come out that way. Roger suppresses a flinch when Rafa’s expression becomes guarded, closed off in that infuriatingly polite way he has that makes you feel you’re talking to a PR approved hologram instead of a person. He hates seeing that look on Rafa’s face and he hates even more that he’s the one to put it there. It makes him desperate, his next words spoken without thinking about how much he’s revealing._ _

__“I’ve wanted to do this for thirteen years, you know.”_ _

__His heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest, but watching the line in between Rafa’s eyebrows disappear as his expression softens into something brighter, is worth it. Has to be._ _

__He can hear the smile in Rafa’s voice when he answers. “I know. I wait thirteen years for you to do it, no?”_ _

__It’s not like he hasn’t guessed at much, but it still makes something warm and bright uncurl in Roger’s chest. Rafa’s mouth still tastes a bit minty when he moves closer to kiss him, rubbing his nose along the heavy stubble covering his jaw. If it were up to Roger they’d spend the rest of their morning exactly like this, but his inner clock tells him they’re already drawing dangerously close to their respective wake-up calls from reception._ _

__It’s that thought pushing him to make the reluctant suggestion. “We should probably clean up a little. Start getting ready.”_ _

__Rafa’s groan of displeasure has him smiling and Roger presses a kiss to his collarbone, mouthing his words along the soft skin there. “I know, baby. We’ll get you some breakfast afterwards, how’s that?”_ _

__Rafa’s laughter brings him up short and he draws back to look at him, strokes at that beautiful smiling mouth, still swollen from his kisses. “Is gonna be your name for me now, Rogelio?”_ _

__Roger frowns. “What, baby? You don’t like it?”_ _

__“Oh, I like,” Rafa reassures him. “Press is gonna like even better.”_ _

__“Well, I wasn’t planning on telling _them_ ,” Roger says, startled when Rafa starts laughing even harder. “What?” _ _

__“Last night, you call me this in our press conference.”_ _

__“What? No, I didn’t,” Roger says automatically. He frowns, trying to remember. “Did I?”_ _

__“Hm,” Rafa confirms, stroking at Roger’s jaw. “They never gonna believe now when I say you’re not my boyfriend.”_ _

__His tone is teasing, but Roger can’t help but think of how that sort of quote could get spun in the papers, how it might appear to casual observers. Or worse, people who actually knew them. God, he doesn’t even really remember saying it. This proximity to Rafa is causing him to get carried away in the most dangerous ways possible. He wonders how quickly others might catch on to them if they weren’t both in long term relationships._ _

__“What are you going to tell Mary?” Roger doesn’t really mean to ask and once he does, he really doesn’t want to hear the answer. Probably sensing his reaction, Rafa catches his face in his hands, strokes at his cheeks with his thumbs, forcing Roger to look at him._ _

__“I not gonna tell her anything. She already knows, no?”_ _

__“You told her?”_ _

__Rafa shrugs. “We’ve been together many years. Was never a problem for us.”_ _

__There’s a part of Roger that wants to dig deeper, ask Rafa what exactly that means, if there were other guys over the years. The other part doesn’t even want to think about Rafa with the woman he’s made his life partner, let alone other men who might have taken what Roger has wanted to for over a decade. That part wins out, any more questioning swallowed down as he kisses Rafa again, the bright flare of possessiveness turning it into something sharper than before, just a hint of teeth as he nips at Rafa’s mouth. Really. It’s probably best that he doesn’t know._ _

__*_ _

__They almost don’t make it to breakfast on time. Climbing into the shower with Rafa delays them for a good forty minutes and predictably ends with Roger pushing him up against the cool tile, head buried in Rafa’s neck as he fucks him for a second time that morning. The fact that Rafa lets him honestly has Roger worried for his mental faculties, but given that he can’t seem to stop himself either, there’s really very little room for him to judge._ _

__Rafa goes back to his room before they head downstairs to join the team and for a terrible moment when they walk up to the table, Roger expects the others to look at them and just _know_. The image is so vivid that his heart is beating fast and unsteady even when no one so much as takes a second glance at them as they take their seats, the discussion already turning to the day ahead of them again. _ _

__Being back in the arena is better and worse at the same time. Sitting on the bench and watching Thomas and Marin open the first session with their doubles match calms his nerves somewhat, but it feels surreal that less than sixteen hours ago it was him and Rafa on that court, still untouched by everything about to happen. It doesn’t feel like sixteen hours. To Roger it almost seems like a lifetime has passed between then and now, leaving him a different person entirely._ _

__They lose the doubles, which is bad for the team and worse for Thomas who didn’t manage to win a single match in front of his home crowd this weekend. Roger does his best to join in with the others when they comfort him afterwards, but most of his attention is taken by the score line. Losing the doubles means either he or Rafa need to win their match later on. And if Sascha loses, both of them will have to. The part of him that cares strictly about their competitive success is really starting to regret that interlude in the shower right about now._ _

__Sascha makes it, prevailing over Sam in straights. Rafa isn’t there for most of the match, preparing for his own against John. When he takes the court after the short break, Roger is the one backstage, already warming up for his own session with Nick. Following the match over the screens, Roger has to try very hard to hide his reaction from the cameras. Rafa isn’t playing well. He’s a half-step too slow for nearly the entirety of the match, missing easy forehands he’d usually place blindfolded. John doesn’t make it any easier by playing with a consistency Roger has seldom seen from him and after one and a half hours it’s over, the third tiebreak of the day that went to Team World instead of them._ _

__Roger meets Rafa in the long hallway to the arena, too aware of the cameras around them to offer anything but a clasp of hands and a squeeze to the shoulder before following him to the relative privacy of the locker room. He takes one of the bags from Rafa as soon as they’re on their own, hiding a grimace when Rafa allows him to._ _

__“Alright?” he asks and promptly regrets it. Talk about questions that don’t really need an answer._ _

__Rafa just shrugs though, already starting to pull off his shirt. “Is okay. Just didn’t take my chances.”_ _

__Given the fact that Rafa would probably tell him the same thing if his foot were about to fall off, Roger doesn’t really feel reassured. “It’s not…I mean, after this morning, is it-“ he flounders and Rafa takes pity on him._ _

__“Is nothing bad. Just sore.”_ _

__Leave it to Rafa to say that with a perfectly straight face, watching impassively as Roger almost swallows his own tongue._ _

__“Sore?” he finally manages and Rafa nods seriously, expression entirely too innocent._ _

__“Long weekend. Lot of matches, no?”_ _

__He finally starts to break up as Roger draws him close, laughter muffled against his mouth as he leans in for a risky, ill-adviced kiss after taking a quick look to make sure they’re alone. “Oh, shut up. You’re such a bastard sometimes.”_ _

__Rafa hums into his mouth with agreement, swaying into Roger and then taking a quick step back as he catches himself, glancing around nervously. His eyes are a little too wide when he meets Roger’s gaze. “Is probably better I shower now.”_ _

__They both freeze and after a beat again dissolve into helpless muffled laughter, painfully aware of how bad it would be to attract anyone’s attention right now. Rafa shakes his head. “You are bad influence.”_ _

__“Pot. Kettle,” Roger retorts, laughing even harder when it only elicits a confused frown from Rafa, just like he expected it to._ _

__“Go play your match.” Rafa waves him off imperiously._ _

__It makes Roger smile and he doesn’t resist the urge to deliver one final squeeze to Rafa’s hip as he passes him on the way to the door, hand already on the handle when Rafa’s voice stops him._ _

__“Roger?”_ _

__He turns and Rafa’s expression has turned into something more serious, though the fondness hasn’t quite left his eyes yet._ _

__“Yeah?”_ _

__“Win,” Rafa tells him and Roger can’t do anything but nod._ _

__*_ _

__It’s not that easy though. Nick is a dangerous player to face even under normal circumstances and with the possibility of taking the competition to a deciding match for his team, he takes it to another level. The first set isn’t nearly as close as Roger would like it to be and he gets broken early on, struggling to keep up with the pace in the rallies. God, he’s tired. Right now it feels like he got no sleep at all last night, never mind the nine hours he usually likes to catch before a competition day._ _

__About ten minutes into the second set, Rafa joins the others on the bench. Roger hears him before he sees him, voice carrying clearly even with the noise of the crowd which is starting to really get into the match. The atmosphere is electric and if most of the bones in Roger’s body weren’t aching with the effort, he’d be delighted that they managed to stay competitive right until the last official match of the day. As it is, he’s mostly hoping to keep his serve sharp and pull through in the tiebreak. There’s no telling how he and Rafa would do in a deciding doubles match, they’re both exhausted._ _

__On the next changeover Rafa is already waiting for him, keeping behind the bench but leaning in close all the same. “Stop the slices,” he instructs firmly and Roger almost groans, because yeah, that really hasn’t been working well so far._ _

__“You slice that way to the backhand, he gonna go crosscourt, every time.”_ _

__“I know.” He does. Nick has been killing him with that shot._ _

__Rafa squeezes his shoulder and retreats. Roger barely resists the urge to grab onto his wrist before he goes. The next time one of Nick’s shots penetrates the court on his backhand side he goes for a clean execution of his stroke, glancing up in time to see Rafa’s nod and balled fist afterwards. After that, looking at Rafa after every point becomes almost compulsive, no matter whether it goes to him or Nick. He can hear the others shout encouragements as well, but his eyes are drawn to Rafa every time, feeding off the hot rush of adrenaline when he cheers one of Roger’s winners harder than he would his own._ _

__He takes the second set in the tiebreak. Rafa almost skips down the two steps to meet him this time, waiting until the others have gotten in their quick encouragements. Nervous energy radiates off him like a thunderstorm, eyes sharp where they fix on Roger. “Next point, when you feel it, just go a little bit more.”_ _

__Roger nods, needing no clarification. And when they take the court for the deciding tiebreak, he cuts loose, dialing up the intensity on his strokes. Nick matches him at first and he actually gets two match points, hitting great winners from both wings. But in the end one of Roger’s forehands whips past him and they’re done, they’ve done it, _he’s_ done it, they won the Laver Cup. _ _

__The roar of the crowd is deafening as he rushes towards the others and then Rafa is jumping into his arms and everything becomes kind of a blur. There’s the ceremony and Roger even gives a speech, though for the life of him he can’t recall what he said afterwards. They raise the cup and take a lap around the arena to the noisy accolades of the crowd afterwards, Rafa at his side the entire time. They pop champagne backstage and by the time they finally make it to the joint press conference, everyone is soaked and sticky._ _

__There’s not much that could possibly pop the bubble Roger’s floating in, but Rafa’s expression when he pulls him aside after the press conference is definitely one of them. His stomach falls as he follows Rafa to one of the smaller rooms set aside for the broadcast staff, thin door doing little to drown out the commotion in the hallway._ _

__“You’re leaving?”_ _

__He knows the answer even before Rafa nods and barely swallows a curse. They really should have talked about this at some point. Roger isn’t sure _what_ exactly he expected, but it wasn’t a rushed goodbye in a glorified broom closet with about fifty journalists on the other side of the door. _ _

__“Flight is in a couple of hours,” Rafa says softly. “You not gonna play Beijing?”_ _

__Roger just shakes his head. “I’ll be in Shanghai ten days from now.”_ _

__“Then I see you there. Try to make the final, no?” Rafa smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Roger’s heart clenches._ _

__“Always,” he says softly._ _

__It’s a far cry from all the things he wants to tell Rafa, all the words he keeps tucked tight inside his chest, like a secret. _I’ll miss you. I miss you every time you’re not there, even when missing you doesn’t make any sense. Thank you for this week. I wouldn’t have wanted to do it without you.__ _

___I don’t regret a thing._ _ _

__Roger can’t say any of those things, especially that last one. But maybe Rafa reads some of it in his eyes, because he smiles, a real smile this time that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle as he takes Roger’s hand. For a second Roger thinks he’s going for one of their lingering hand clasps but Rafa raises it to his mouth and places a tender kiss against the knuckles._ _

__He’s gone before Roger can even attempt to react, slipping through the door and striding down the hallway without another word goodbye. He doesn’t turn around._ _

__Roger watches him go, heart still in his throat, hand tingling where Rafa’s lips just were. He takes a single breath and glances around once, slowly refocusing on the world around him. There are interviews to be given, congratulations to receive and calls to make. A flight to catch, eventually. Tony must be around here somewhere, without a doubt dying to talk to him. He won’t have much time in the week ahead, that’s for sure._ _

__Roger walks down the hall, back towards the real world, back towards his life._ _

__Ten days left until Shanghai._ _

**Author's Note:**

> As you may have noticed, I took some liberties with the details. Please leave a review and/or kudos if you enjoyed the story, I'd really appreciate it.


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